Morning without you

 Morning finds me before I am ready,

before my heart remembers how to beat alone.

I wake reaching for a voice

that no longer answers my name.

The bed is quiet.

Too quiet.

Silence presses where love once lived.

For months, loving you vasq was my language,

my routine, my breath between hours.

Now the day opens like a question

I don’t yet know how to answer.

I miss your face

the way desire felt certain,

the warmth that convinced my body

I was chosen.

Grief comes in ordinary moments—

light through the window,

the first thought of the day,

the habit of you.

I am not broken.

I am withdrawing from a life

I built around your presence.

So if I cry in the morning,

let it be known:

this is the sound of love learning

how to stand on its own.

And though today feels impossible,

I am still here.

Still breathing.

Still becoming someone

who survives the absence

and keeps going.

A HEART THAT LEARNED TO SURVIVE

 I stayed where love had teeth,

where my name was shouted,

where silence was safer than asking,

and leaving felt heavier than staying.

I left and returned,

again and again,

because hope is stubborn

when it grows in wounded places.

I lived with a man

who rationed kindness,

who counted my child’s hunger,

who made food feel like guilt

and love feel like debt.

My body learned fear before desire.

Touch arrived without tenderness.

Breath left before pleasure began.

Even my tears learned to be quiet.

I became someone else to survive—

angry, fragmented,

borrowing warmth from strangers

just to remember I was human.

Then I chose solitude.

I chose work.

I chose to build, to finish, to achieve.

I learned how to be a machine

because machines do not break.

And then I met you.

You were softness.

You were presence.

You were the first place

my heart rested without flinching.

I loved you deeply—

not loudly, not recklessly,

but with the kind of love

that finally believes it is safe.

Then your voice grew distant.

Your words thinned.

I began counting pauses,

reading silence like prophecy.

I blamed myself.

My past taught me to do that.

To believe love leaves

because I am too much,

too wounded, too afraid.

I don’t want many bodies.

I want one heart.

I only bloom in love.

Without it, I dry quietly,

and even pleasure forgets me.

So here I am—

loving hard,

hurting honestly,

terrified of losing what I finally found.

If I reach for you too often,

it is not control.

It is memory.

It is a woman who learned

that love can vanish without warning.

I am not broken—

I am surviving in a body

that remembers everything.

If I ask you to stay,

it is not weakness.

It is hope,

still brave enough

to try again Vasq.

HEALING ISN'T SIMPLE

 .

People talk about moving on from heartbreak like it’s a simple thing

“Just cry and move on,” they say—like pain works on a timer.

But nobody prepares you for those nights when your chest feels heavy, your mind won’t slow down, and your heart refuses to release what it once held so tightly.

No one talks about the 2 a.m. hours—

when the whole world is quiet but your thoughts are unbearably loud.

When sleep runs away from you because your mind is replaying every moment, every conversation, every “what if,” every future you had already started building in your head.

Nobody warns you that heartbreak can feel physical.

The tight chest, the heaviness in your body, the tears that appear out of nowhere.

You’re not being dramatic—you’re grieving a bond your heart had fully invested in.

Healing feels lonely, too.

You can be surrounded by people and still feel unseen.

Because no one lived your love story the way you did—no one carried your hope, your effort, your emotional depth.

And healing is never a straight line.

One day you’re sure you’ve outgrown the situation, and the next day you miss them so suddenly and so deeply that you question everything.

That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.

No one tells you how long it takes to unlearn the habits.

The morning check-ins.

The comfort of their voice.

The feeling of having someone to share your day with.

Heartbreak isn’t just losing a person—it’s losing a rhythm.

And maybe the toughest part is learning to trust yourself again.

Because heartbreak makes you doubt your judgment, your worth, your ability to choose people.

But loving deeply doesn’t mean you loved wrong—it means you loved courageously. And courage always leaves a mark.

So no, moving on isn’t “cry and get over it.”

It’s sitting with the pain, understanding yourself, forgiving yourself, rebuilding piece by piece, and choosing peace one day at a time.

It’s slow. It’s messy.

But eventually, your heart stops breaking—and starts breathing again.

I MISS HIM

There was a warmth in him

that didn’t match his quiet smile,

a kind of fire he carried

beneath all that gentleness.

With him, closeness felt different —

like he understood my language

without ever needing the words.

A touch became a conversation,

a moment became a memory

I still feel in my skin.

He knew how to hold space for me,

how to meet me where I was,

how to awaken parts of me

I didn’t know were waiting.

Sometimes I miss the way

he made me feel seen,

the quiet magic,

the unspoken heat,

the way his presence

could turn a heartbeat

into something louder.

I miss the man he was to the world —

and the fire he was to me.

MAYBE ONE DAY YOU WILL UNDERSTAND

 

Maybe one day you’ll understand this:

I never wanted a battlefield.

I never wanted loud arguments or quiet distance.

All I ever wanted was to feel chosen…

to feel safe…

to feel like love didn’t have to be earned like a prize.

It was never me against you.

It was me trying to hold together something I valued.

Me trying to protect the softness between us.

Me trying to show up in the ways I once wished

someone had shown up for me.

You called it “too much.”

Too emotional.

Too intense.

But what I gave wasn’t pressure—

it was care.

The kind of love that stays when things get tough,

not the kind that disappears when it becomes inconvenient.

I never wanted you to doubt yourself.

Ironically, you made me doubt myself every day.

And maybe one day, you’ll look back and see it:

I wasn’t trying to control anything.

I wasn’t demanding perfection.

I was just trying to love you

in the only honest way I knew—

even when you kept pushing me further away Vasq.

YOU LEFT ME PARKED IN MY THOUGHTS

I parked here to breathe,

because the weight in my chest grew loud.

The world kept moving,

but my h

eart needed a quiet corner.

Sadness sat beside me,

not to break me,

but to remind me I’m human.

Maybe healing is a journey,

maybe it starts with a road trip,

a suitcase,

and a place where the sky feels lighter.

So I’ll take a small vacation—

not to escape life,

but to find myself again

somewhere my spirit can sigh in peace.

When Death Knocked in My Sleep: A Nightmare That Taught Me About Life

Last night, I had a nightmare so vivid it clung to my soul even after I woke up. In that dream, I was at the hospital — not as a visitor, but as a patient. I had been diagnosed with a deadly illness. The doctor’s words were clear: I was going to die. They asked if I wanted to be injected with a medication that would prolong my life for a short while — just two more years. I declined. I was still healthy at that moment, and even though I was shaken by the news, I didn’t overthink my decision. I just said no.

Then the dream shifted.

I was weak. I had lost all my hair. My body was frail, a shadow of the woman I once was. I was dying. I turned to my sister, Rehema, and told her that I regretted refusing the injection. I wished I had chosen to live those extra two years, even if they were filled with pain. But even as I said the words, I wasn’t sure what I truly wanted — to live or to die. I was caught in between. A part of me still wanted to hold on to life.

Rehema looked at me and said, “Hata wangekusumbua.” I couldn’t tell whether she meant it sincerely, or if she was trying to comfort me, knowing the decision was behind us now and there was no turning back.

And then I prayed.

In my dying state, I began to plead with God for a miracle. And something happened — I felt a spark of strength returning. A flicker of hope. My parents had already given up. They had accepted I was going to die. I didn’t tell them that I felt stronger. I didn’t want to give them false hope. I wasn’t even sure if I was truly getting better, or if it was just my imagination — one final delusion of hope before the end.

When I woke up, I was in tears.

I prayed for health — not just for myself, but for everyone struggling in silence, everyone fighting invisible battles inside breaking bodies. I realized something profound: when death comes, we lose control. No human can stop it. No one can protect the people they love from the pain of losing them. No one can stop the ache of grief.

That dream taught me something I’ll never forget — life is fragile, and those who live with terminal illness endure a depth of pain and uncertainty that most of us will never truly understand. I felt it. And I honour it.

We often live like we’re in control. But we’re not. Life is a mystery, and sometimes, even in dreams, it reminds us of what really matters.

Phrases That Feed Mediocrity: A Reflection on Mindsets That Hold Us Back

 Some phrases are not just words — they are belief systems. Belief systems developed and recycled by those too lazy to rise, too poor in mindset to believe in abundance, and too jealous to celebrate success. Instead of working hard to improve their lives, they cling to sayings that justify their stagnation. Let’s unpack a few:

1. "Aliye juu mngoje chini"

Translation: Whoever is up, wait for him down here.

This phrase sounds humble, but it’s dangerous. It encourages passivity and quiet bitterness. Why wait for someone to fall instead of working your way up? Why anchor your hope on someone else’s downfall instead of building your own rise? Progress isn’t about dragging others down — it’s about climbing higher through discipline, effort, and vision.

Success is not a cycle where the top must always come down — it’s a mountain that anyone willing to climb can reach.

2. "Money is the root of all evil"

This is one of the most misunderstood and misused phrases of all time. The original quote, from the Bible, actually says: "The love of money is the root of all evil." But many choose to distort it as a way to justify their discomfort with wealth.

In Rich Dad Poor Dad, Robert Kiyosaki explains that this mindset keeps people broke. When you believe money is evil, you subconsciously sabotage your ability to earn, invest, and grow financially. The truth? Money is a tool — neutral and powerful. It amplifies who you are. If you're generous, money gives you reach. If you're selfish, money reveals it.

The problem isn’t money — it’s the fear of handling it, the ignorance around it, and the shame people attach to wanting it.

3. "It’s lonely at the top"

This is often used to romanticize failure or to warn people away from ambition. But ask anyone truly at the top — they’ll tell you it’s not lonely when you take people with you. It’s only lonely when you isolate yourself, step on others, or rise without lifting anyone else.

Build community. Network wisely. Collaborate. You don’t have to be alone to be successful. The idea that greatness must come with isolation is another lie sold by those who gave up on climbing.

The top isn’t lonely — it’s selective. And that’s a different thing altogether.

Final Thoughts:

We must learn to interrogate the phrases we casually repeat — because many of them are rooted in fear, scarcity, and envy. If you want to grow, succeed, and leave a legacy, stop parroting mediocrity. Speak abundance. Speak action. Speak truth.

Let the lazy wait. Let the bitter complain. But as for you — rise.

STRONGER IN THE SILENCE

 I held my tongue,

bitten with the taste of goodbye,

words unspoken—

secrets we didn’t have the courage to share.

You posted your love

like a flag unfurled,

bright for the world to see,

while I was the secret,

the hush between the lines.

I reached for you,

a trembling hand through glass—

blocked, erased,

like I never existed at all.

Yet even now,

my heart traces your shadow,

craving the warmth

of a friend, a smile,

just the smallest bridge back to you.

But the bridge is gone.

You didn’t have the words,

and I didn’t want the lies.

So I stand here—

on the quiet side of my own heart,

learning to let go.

Because sometimes the ones we miss

are the ones we must leave behind—

to find ourselves again,

stronger in the silence.

CELEBRATING LIFE: A STORY OF SURVIVAL AND GRATITUDE

 

On November 27th, 2021, my family’s world stood still. That day, a phone call delivered news no one ever wants to hear. My brother, Radhison Komora Dadda, had been involved in a horrific accident near Gede. The caller, through tears, described the severity of the situation and urgently requested funds for an ambulance and a CT scan at Malindi General Hospital. At first, disbelief consumed me. I knew my brother was at home—or so I thought. Desperately seeking clarity, I reached out to the rest of my family. To our shock, the unimaginable turned out to be true.

A kind stranger had found my brother by the roadside, gravely injured, surrounded by onlookers who chose to take photos instead of helping. This Good Samaritan rushed him to Malindi General Hospital, where his condition was critical. He had suffered a traumatic head injury and multiple fractures, requiring immediate transfer to Mombasa for advanced care.

The next days were a blur of fear, hope, and prayers. My brother was admitted to the ICU, spending eight days in intensive care fighting for his life and enduring four days in a coma. His condition was touch-and-go, but against all odds, he pulled through. After a grueling month and a day in the hospital, he was discharged on December 28th, 2021, beginning his long road to recovery.

Reflecting on this journey, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. What seemed like an insurmountable tragedy became a moment of grace and resilience. My brother’s survival is nothing short of a miracle, a testament to God’s mercy and the power of family and faith. It was not just a physical recovery but a spiritual awakening for all of us. Through the pain and uncertainty, we grew closer to God, finding strength we didn’t know we had.

Today, I celebrate my brother’s life—his courage, his will to fight, and the unwavering support that surrounded him. His story is a reminder to cherish every moment, hold our loved ones close, and never underestimate the resilience of the human spirit

A Strange Dream That Lingers in My Mind

 

The other night, I had an unusually vivid dream.

My two younger sisters and I were in an enormous hall, having been kidnapped alongside a large crowd—enough people to fill at least two classrooms, perhaps even more. We were all herded into a single, cavernous room under the strict watch of heavily armed guards, each ready to shoot anyone who dared to escape. Though my sisters and I had been captured together, we were separated in the room.

As I sat silently, a stranger beside me discreetly handed me a book. We had no phones, and the book became my sole escape. I read nervously, stealing glances at the guards, my heart pounding with fear that one of them might notice and punish me for possessing it. But despite the looming danger, I thumped my chest silently and continued to read, determined to hold onto my tiny slice of freedom. Every time I heard footsteps nearing, my heart skipped a beat—but no one questioned me, so I read on.

Suddenly, one of the guards shouted that the building was collapsing—we were, apparently, on a very tall structure. While I expected the boss to dismiss the warning, he instead ordered the doors to be flung open. Self-preservation kicked in: he bolted out faster than even the prisoners. I ran beside him, but my sisters were already ahead of us. As soon as he stepped out into the stairwell, he realized it had been a false alarm. I feared he’d now turn on us, order our recapture, and lock the doors before the rest could escape.

Instinctively, I ran—faster than I’ve ever run before. I caught up with my sisters as they reached the main road, and without a word, I pulled them toward a different path—into the forest.

We sprinted for hours. My sisters begged me to stop, convinced we had lost our pursuers. But I insisted we keep going—"the goal is to get as far away as possible," I told them. I ran ahead, with them close behind. Eventually, deep in the woods, we came across a small settlement of no more than five houses—isolated and quiet. We passed quickly, not daring to stop.

Just as we were leaving, we encountered a woman walking. My sister, Dr. Rehema, recognized her and greeted her warmly, asking if she was a certain doctor. The woman said no, but revealed that she was the daughter of the doctor in question—also a medical professional. Rehema introduced herself, and for some reason, she had a phone with her. I asked her to take the woman’s number, just in case we encountered danger or needed help. She complied, though we didn’t explain what had happened to us.

We continued on until we reached a small town. We had no idea where we were, but saw buses bound for Nairobi, Mombasa, and Zanzibar. I suggested we head to Nairobi first, to regroup and figure out our next move. We couldn’t afford to wait till nightfall, as I feared the gangsters might scour town centers in search of escapees.

So we began the trek to the highway, a few kilometers away, hoping to catch a matatu to Nairobi. But then—ominously—we turned and spotted the lead mafia figure, a white man (unlike the African guards who had held us). I told my sisters, “You see? I warned you.” I hoped he hadn’t seen us, but his quickened pace toward us said otherwise.

We turned back toward the town center—still close enough for safety in the presence of others. As we walked, I was slightly ahead of my sisters. The man passed me and Hajilo, but when he reached Rehema, he seized her. Hajilo kept walking, but I stopped and shouted, warning her that we must fight to free our sister.

We fought with every ounce of strength and screamed loudly to attract attention. Eventually, he released Rehema. As we tried to walk away, he made one last attempt—lunging at Hajilo’s coat. I screamed for her to run, and she dodged him just in time. His hand clutched nothing but air.

We ran toward the town center again—and then, just like that, I woke up.

Reflection: What Could This Dream Mean?

I lay awake wondering: was this dream symbolic of something? Was it a metaphor for a real-life situation? Could it represent my fear of captivity in a situation where I feel watched, constrained, yet still secretly brave enough to seek my own form of mental escape? Or maybe it was a message about leadership, instinct, and protection—my natural drive to shield my loved ones, take decisive action, and outsmart danger?

It could also suggest the illusion of safety, the fine line between false alarms and real threats, and the idea that sometimes, in moments of crisis, the person who holds power is just as afraid as the rest.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was one of those dreams that visits us with no clear message—but lingers because it forces us to confront our own courage, love, fear, and strategy.

What do you think such a dream could mean? Have you ever had a dream that felt like a warning, a test, or a message in disguise? I’d love to hear your interpretations.

 

POKOMO...A RARE GEM IN THE WILD

 So a few days ago I visited an old classmate in Nairobi, and she introduced me to her sister. As we were chatting, she casually turned to her and asked, “Have you ever seen a Pokomo?”

She blinked. "No, I only read about them in Social Studies."

The sister pointed at me. “Well, here you go! This is a real-life Pokomo!”

Her eyes widened like she had just spotted a dinosaur. "Wow! This is the first time I’m meeting a Pokomo in real life!"

Then she hit me with the ultimate question: “Is there any famous Pokomo that people know?”

Now, as a proud Pokomo ambassador (self-appointed, of course), I had to represent. "Ever heard of Danson Mungatana?"

She nodded enthusiastically.

"Well, he’s Pokomo! In fact, He is my relative!"

You should have seen her face—suddenly, meeting me felt like shaking hands with history itself.

Now, this isn’t the first time I’ve had such a conversation. Many times, I meet people from bara (upcountry Kenya), and when I tell them I’m Pokomo, their reaction is always the same:

"You’re the first Pokomo I’ve ever met!"

At this point, I should start carrying certificates to prove my existence.

Then comes the next question: "Where do Pokomos live?"

"Tana River County," I reply.

And without fail, someone will ask: "Is that near Athi River?"

WTH!

Let me set the record straight: I am a Pokomo from Buu Nation, Katsae Clan of Ngao London. I am a proud crocodile eater. We Pokomos are rare gems, an elite league of people who may not be widely known, but we are as real as it gets.

So, if you ever meet a Pokomo, consider yourself lucky—you’ve just encountered a living legend!

Lol